


Unconventional

by iwillrunforever



Category: DCU, Gotham (TV)
Genre: F/M, Implied smut?, Kissing, abuse mention, threat to life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 11:56:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21197276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwillrunforever/pseuds/iwillrunforever
Summary: It's just another night on the job for Victor Zsasz, which slowly gets stranger and stranger when he meets his target - you.





	Unconventional

**Author's Note:**

> This was requested on my Tumblr @ficklefics, hope you enjoy :)

It was a typical night on the job for Victor Zsasz – or maybe even a boring one. It was quiet, not many people about. The building he was about to enter had no security, not even a camera at the entrance. Of course, security wouldn’t have stopped him anyway, but it did make his job considerably easier. Sure, it wasn’t as interesting or entertaining, but sometimes an easy night was good. 

He swiftly climbed the tall flight of stairs – the elevator was broken – and found himself in the narrow hallway of the sixth floor. Turning to the right he found three doors – two on his left, one on his right, each one assigned a letter. He strolled towards the furthest away – 6F. The door was unlocked. Too easy. Pushing it open, he found three doors. The first lead to a cramped, grimy bathroom, a crack in the mirror. He wondered why someone was willing to spend the amount of money it cost to hire him on killing someone who was so clearly a nobody in Gotham. The second door opened to a bedroom, the only pieces of furniture a bed and wardrobe, which filled the small space. The bed was empty. Another strange piece in this puzzle. He entered the final room slowly, wondering what he would find. A joint kitchen and living room – the kitchen was sparse, a counter, sink, fridge and oven; suitable only for the preparation of the smallest of meals. But what caught Victor’s attention was not the tiny kitchen, or the old sofa pushed against the far wall. It was the woman sitting waiting for him, a dim lamp illuminating the side of your face.

“I was wondering when you’d arrive,” Clearly you had been expecting him. This may have surprised the assassin, but he wasn’t particularly shocked or put off by it. He had a job to do, and he was going to do it. He stepped towards you and you stood up. Your face was calm. This was unusual for his work – usually, by this point, they were begging for their lives, or trying to fight against the inevitable – but it wasn’t unique; occasionally people were accepting of their fate. He reached for his gun, ready to get it over with, but you raised a hand in an attempt to stop him. Maybe this would be more interesting than he had anticipated. “Before you kill me, can I make one request?” Not what he expected, but still unsurprising. Everybody had regrets, messages they wanted to leave, revenge to be taken.   
“What?” He didn’t have time for this. It was late, he was tired, and his schedule for the rest of the week was full.   
“A last meal?” You sounded hopeful, optimistic almost. Victor didn’t even resist the urge to roll his eyes. “I’ll give you money – just let me have this last thing.” He didn’t need money. He was already getting paid enough; but at the same time, he was never one to turn down a bonus, especially for something so simple.   
“Fine.” The hopeful smile became a pleased grin and you slipped past him into the kitchen. He followed you the four steps, just in case you went for a knife. But then again, you had clearly known he was coming. If you were going to try and kill him you would have done it already.   
“I’m (Y/N),” You had started chopping onions, the strong scent quickly filling the room.   
“I know,” The assassin turned away under the guise of examining the living room when, in reality, he was trying to hide the tears drawn by the onion. Victor Zsasz did not cry, especially in front of his victims – even when the reason for his tears was not emotions, but an involuntary response to a vegetable being cut.   
“Of course you do. Stupid,” You berated yourself, finishing with the onion and beginning to mince garlic. “And you’re Victor Zsasz.”   
“Correct.” The threat of the onion gone, he wiped his eyes and turned back to watch you.   
“Who hired you?” There was a pot of water boiling on the stove now – he watched you pour in salt and spaghetti. “You know,” You murmured, more to yourself than to him. “So many people don’t salt their pasta water. It’s a pet peeve of mine.”   
“Why does it matter?” He didn’t know why he was engaging in small talk. Then again, he didn’t understand how you could be so at ease with the man who had been hired to kill you. The night was getting stranger by the minute.   
“If you don’t salt the water then the pasta will be bland,” You said it as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “And no amount of sauce can fix that.” As you spoke you began frying the onions, the sound of sizzling filling the room.   
“How long will this take?” He’s starting to regret his decision. He’s not just tired, the smell of food was making him hungry.   
“Not too long.” Mince now. Victor huffed overdramatically and threw himself into the sofa, the old springs and crumbling cushions creaking under him. All professionalism had been thrown out of the window. He remained like that for a good ten minutes, maybe more, while you cooked. Finally, you called to him saying that you are finished. There wasn’t even a hint of guilt or embarrassment in your voice – but why would there be? You were prolonging your life, even if only for an extra hour, and inconveniencing the man who had been sent to kill you. Victor stood to find two bowls, filled with spaghetti and Bolognese.   
“I thought you might want some,” You explained, “Your stomach isn’t as subtle as you think it is.” He rolled his eyes but accepted the food. He waited for her to eat a mouthful of her own bowl, then switched them. He raised his brown, inviting challenge or defence, but she merely smirked knowingly. She took the other bowl and began to eat once more. “You really think I would try and poison you?”   
“You wouldn’t be the first.”   
“I don’t even know how to hide a body.”   
“Somehow I don’t think the GCPD would mind.”   
“Yeah, but I’ve already got one person trying to kill me. I don’t want to add to that.” The pair chuckled as one, and Victor took a bite of the food. The moment it hit his tongue, flavour burst into his mouth. He struggled not to moan at how completely good it was.   
“This is amazing.” He had to be honest. Besides, once the food was done she would be dead, and his moment of rare vulnerability would be secret once more.   
“It’s an old family recipe.” You smiled. “I’m glad you like it.” Silence again while you eat, until you ask: “I asked before, but... Who hired you?”   
“I suppose it doesn’t matter if I tell you, but it was anonymous. A woman, with a lot of money. That’s all I know.” Your face fell.   
“Oh, I see.” You hesitated for a moment, thinking. “And if she wanted to call it off, could she?”   
“Are you imagining that you might figure out who it is, phone them in desperation?” You shrugged, but your face gave you away. “Theoretically yes, but I don’t see how-“   
“Then it’s off.”   
“What?” He blinked, truly surprised for the first time that night.   
“I hired you.” You stood up straighter. “And now I’m cancelling the contract.”   
“Do you really think I’d believe that?”   
“You have a phone number – you’re supposed to call it when I’m dead. Phone it now.” He frowned but pulled out the cell phone hidden inside his jacket. He had the number memorised, quickly typing it in and pressing the call button, his eyes fixed on you with your small, expectant smile. Almost immediately the phone attached to the wall began to ring. You took your time reaching for it, you hand pulling it away and replacing it, the obnoxious ringing silenced.   
“Why?” Victor wasn’t confused anymore. He was pissed off. He was tempted to kill you anyway for wasting his time.   
“Isn’t it obvious?” You took a step forward, the nervous act replaced by smooth confidence. “I wanted to meet the great Victor Zsasz. After all, we do have history, even if you don’t remember it.” A smug smile played on your lips – you were enjoying yourself.   
“Who are you?” History wasn’t good. History meant anger, meant revenge.   
“(Y/N) (Y/S/N).” The surname sounded familiar, but it didn’t mean anything to him. “You killed my husband. And I saw you.” He remembered now. A stormy night. A dead body. The silhouette of a woman in the doorway, frozen in shock. He had only got a glimpse of your face, but now that he knew who you were, he recognised you.   
“Does that mean you’re going to try and kill me?” He chuckled, raising his gun to point it directly at your forehead. “Give me a reason. Not that I need one.”   
You laughed, shaking your head, seemingly oblivious to the weapon that was a movement away from killing you. “If I wanted to kill you, this is not the way I would do it.” You picked up the bowls and sat them next to the sink. “I wanted to thank you.” Victor’s mouth fell open in shock – he closed it quickly.   
“This whole thing – hiring me, making me sit about while you cooked food – all so you could thank me? For killing your husband?” Now, Victor had seen some strange shit – it was Gotham after all. Weird was normal. But this – now this could definitely be classed as unusual.   
“I should explain.”   
“Please do.”   
“He was a monster. If I’d had any power I would have done it myself. I was sure...” The smile that had remained on your face was gone. “If you hadn’t killed him, I’m sure that he would have killed me.” Your voice shook you spoke, and a single tear fell from your eye. “I know you’re not a hero. But I had to tell you.”

“You wasted your money.” He turned to leave before he took his anger out on the naïve woman in front of him. As he opened the door you grabbed his arm.   
“Wait!” He went to throw your hand away, but the look on your face made him pause. You had changed – there was something dark behind your eyes, and desperate, although he wasn’t sure what you were desperate for. “You don’t understand. I need you to understand.” Before he could speak you had taken his face in your hands and were kissing him. It was hungry, frenzied, barely even a kiss. Victor’s first instinct was to pull away, but something pulled him closer to you. 

Victor Zsasz could have almost anything he wanted – money, weapons, valuables. Almost. But it was very rare that he found himself kissing a beautiful woman. He was not the type that people threw themselves at – if anything people ran from him as though he carried some deadly disease. And yet, this woman was clinging to him as though she’d die if their lips parted. Sure, it may be that this was the primal action inspired by your rawest emotions, but it was real and genuine, and it sent heat through his body. You pulled away, your chest heaving, face flushed and lips swollen. In comparison, Victor looked as composed as ever.

“You’ll have to try harder than that to show your gratitude,” His words were harsh, but the smirk on his face made your heart skip. A sly grin appeared on your face and you pulled him back in, his hands gripping tight onto your waist, holding you flush against him. 

“Oh, I will.”


End file.
